


theophobia

by amb-roses (overtture)



Series: his kiss, the riot [2]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Don't Examine This Too Closely, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Consensual Possession, Psychic Violence, Psychological Horror, Slight sensory deprivation, Speculation, Supernatural Elements, WWE SummerSlam, ask to tag, seth's just tryin to be a good friend and what does he get? mildly possessed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 21:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20264929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/amb-roses
Summary: let me in.The thought was quiet, small, almost pleading. Then came the noise.Genderless, lungless screaming. Without pause, without restraint, without beginning or end, bloodcurdling. A soft breeze, empty, hollow, without life or anything at all. He couldn't see, or rather, couldn't look away, but he could sense those same tendrils creeping in around his mind like smog; belladonna. Beautiful, poisonous. Lovely. Deadly.Finn had thought, not out loud or even at the forefront of his mind, that maybe Wyatt had still been somewhere within this body.Finn had thought wrong.





	theophobia

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW, so! summerslam huh? i started this as soon as i saw and it. got very quickly out of hand as all my fics do! the use of names in this is meaningful and intentional, wink wink
> 
> anyway, ill edit this over later as usual, but enjoy!

_ pr inc e lin g _

_ No. _

_ l itt le f inn _

_ No. _

Finn can feel a pinch, sharp and small, at the skin of his right Achilles heel, accompanied by the familiar numbing prickle ghosting over the flat of his feet as he paced to himself, waiting for his match. He stepped pointedly forward, turning his back to the light when he can feel that same needle pricking sensation crawl up his shadowed spine. There’s a mellowed sort of satisfaction that he waited to put his jacket on before he walked out, that Balor can’t hide in the dark between his shoulder blades and leather.

“No,” he says to open air. The frustration is scalding, but he can’t tell whether it’s actually his own or if it’s Bálor. It might be both. This wasn’t the time for a childish, petty demon, though. Finn had a reputation, had read the atmosphere for what it was. He knew he had a record of Demon appearances when it came to Pay-Per-Views but there became a point where too much of a good thing came into play.

He felt a sudden swell of nausea rise, acid high in his throat as he paused, leaned against the nearby wall, sipped his water. A wicked combination of a demon’s ire and nerves. Truth was, he wasn’t sure what the deal was with his match.

The Fiend… all of the signs pointed in opposite directions, nothing of significance to note. Whatever it was, it was either new and cocky or old and subtle. Both were a significant danger. He had no beef with whatever it was, so hopefully the match was a simple face off. A probe, a challenge for territory, etcetera. Hopefully, his worries were unfounded.

At that thought, the chill of Bálor’s presence in his veins lessened more than usual, easing up ever so slightly as Rollins joined him, smirking as he lets his hair loose from its bun. 

“Hey man, no demon tonight?”

“No,” Finn says, “not tonight.”

“Are you sure?” Rollins insists, tilting his head. “I thought the Pay-Per-Views were demon territory.”

“Usually are, but not tonight.” Finn lets warning seep into his tone, rolling his shoulders with a sharp look.

Seth put his hands up in surrender. “Ah, well. Is it Wyatt?”

Finn pursed his lips, cracked his knuckles slowly. “Just a bit on edge. Don’t know anythin’ ‘bout a _ Fiend.” _

“No lore?” Seth teases.

“Nope,” none that mattered here, at least. “I just feel… maybe keeping on my toes tonight is the right way to tackle it. The Demon would only get in the way.”

Rollins raised an eyebrow. “Give ‘em some credit, at least. The Demon’s faced every threat you’ve thrown at him and you’re no real worse off, now.”

"I'm not using the demon tonight," he puts as much finality into the tone as he dares. "He's been helpful, sure, but I don't need him to be successful."

Rollins stared at him for a long few seconds.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't need him tonight. Not for this."

"Forgive me if I don't believe you."

"You're forgiven."

"Finn–"

_ "Don't." _

Rollins was silent. His face became very carefully blank. Finn faced him with a firm, unwavering glare.

"I don't need the Demon tonight. Seriously."

The Slayer opened his mouth, face twitching, and he narrowed his eyes before the words could properly form. 

“Finn–”

“Hey, Bálor,” a backstage attendant leaned into the hall with a clipboard and headphones. “One minute to go.”

He nodded to the attendant, turning back to the other wrestler with a thin expression. “I don’t suppose we’ll have any problems?”

Rollins sneered at him. “No. None. Don’t forget, you’re–”

_ “Whatever. _ I get it. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Finn didn’t wait to see Seth’s confused face as Bálor returned to swell up under his skin once more.

* * *

The crowd is wild tonight.

He missed this. He missed Pay-Per-View entrances. It felt like it had been years, like he was a man starved being fed a banquet feast. Gods know Bálor was drowning in wanton gluttony at the pure energy feeding into them, gorging itself and roiling in Finn’s musculature in cocky pleasure, hot in his chest, oily and wet as it pressed through his skin and pores at the overabundance of it all. 

An arena screaming for you, flooding you full of their belief, of their praise and emotion never hurt a man anyway. He measured his ego carefully, unwilling to try and curb his smile. He’d need this energy after all, that little bit of a daring edge from cautious giddiness and just the right amount of confidence. Just as quick as his entrance starts, though, it ends. He can already feel whatever it is move his way.

The lights go out as it reaches the back room, section by section of arena lights flickering out with the angry hum of electricity he knows to be supernatural means. It was magic overpowering the technology, overwhelming it and forcing it to it’s command. An intimidation play? Just an ambiance prop? He doesn’t have time to ponder it as he rolls his shoulders in preparation, as that foreign power compresses, slims, concentrates into something smaller, more human, and

the Fiend enters.

The first thing he sees is the head of Bray Wyatt, held loosely by thin wire, disfigured around a blazing light. The restlessness of Bálor falls away into a stillness, intent.

Foreign, sudden fear exploded in his chest, shook violent shivers through his body, sent his blood pumping quickly, breath catching in time with his own footsteps that pedaled him backwards and quickly out of the ring, into the fog that crawled towards him with long, slender fingers. Even without the Demon riding in the passenger's seat he could feel that _ other _ power, a heady, thick sort of thing, could smell rot and putrid flesh, raw and stomach-churning, _ strong. _

It wasn’t like Bray Wyatt’s energies, slow, creeping. The arena was Finn's and then it wasn’t. In one moment, he could feel every single soul in that stadium resonate with every atom of his existence that he couldn't quite comprehend, every single soul in every city that watched him in that moment, could feel that belief, that attention.

And then in the next, in less than a blink, this new energy swallowed it whole.

It stole the audience from him like sucking the air from the room, leaving only the ramp, ringside, and ring itself untouched, and a thick, muggy air behind, heavy, swollen with that decayed energy. With a pang of terror, he realized he couldn’t even feel the crowd anymore. 

No matter who the Universe called for, no matter what power resided in the arena, the Universe was unyielding, unwavering. Then, now, and forever. Ever-present. But now, now, for all he could sense, he had nothing but the dark and suffocating atmosphere, an empty stadium as that being re-inflated to consume the new space. Finn was terrified. Finn was horrified. Finn was scared, and angry, and irritated, and so, so remorseful, so sad, regretful. Finn was– alone.

Finn was alone.

Even then it wasn’t enough for it, leaking over the barricade from the audience like overflow, like boiling water bubbling over the edges of a pot with only wrestling’s ancient, all powerful restraint holding the worst of it back, thin water-falling tendrils reaching for him as it began to trickle forth. Over it all, he could hear each footfall of his opponent, like ripples on water, swallowing the ramp and stairs as it entered the ring.

Bálor was silent, that was the worst part. Was this part of his punishment for keeping it in? Was this silence, abandonment, this primal fear, the force of this opposing being, all to teach him a lesson? The thin layer of sweat Bálor had leaked out of him was clammy on his skin now, almost sticky, almost burning unlike the usual cold the Demon King emitted.

And Bálor was silent.

The lights returned. So did the crowd. 

Finn choked on a deep lungful of air over the sudden flood of feedback that came with the return, resisting the burn of his eyes at the sudden light and overwhelming return of proper air, the return of his senses from their deprivation, and locked eyes with the Fiend.

Bálor was silent but present. Cold under his skin, his skin too tight, his body feeling clogged and occupied like it was supposed to, loosening and liquefying as he leapt up to the apron, as he steadied his resolve. This was simply another match, another opponent, another pay-per-view. That was all. He would take apart this _ Fiend _and display his disassembled parts to the Universe, with his own two hands, and then get some dinner, and then go to bed, and never think about this ever again.

He only managed to circle a few steps as the bell went off before they clashed, gloved hands tightening around his neck, thumbs digging into his jaw.

let me in.

The thought was quiet, small, almost pleading. Then came the noise.

Genderless, lungless screaming. Without pause, without restraint, without beginning or end, bloodcurdling. A soft breeze, empty, hollow, without life or anything at all. He couldn't see, or rather, couldn't look away, but he could sense those same tendrils creeping in around his mind like smog; belladonna. Beautiful, poisonous. Lovely. Deadly.

Finn had thought, not out loud or even at the forefront of his mind, that maybe Wyatt had still been in this body. 

Maybe his soul, suppressed under the weight of how many entities had romped through. His mind must have been shredded by now, and he hadn’t known the original Wyatt to make any guess as to whether his heart, his will, was strong enough to withstand the beating he’d taken over the years. If it had, it must’ve been a flickering, fading candle. His soul was the most likely to have survived. Souls were hardy like that.

Finn had thought, with all the hope one could possess in situations like these, that maybe some form of Bray Wyatt had survived in whatever was left of his vessel. So many beings passing, meddling, possessing one vessel? It should’ve fallen apart by now, been destroyed, fallen apart under irreparable damage, and yet it still stood. On different Firefly Funhouses, Bray Wyatt’s history had been referenced, so maybe some shred of him had survived.

Finn had thought wrong. 

Bálor surged forward as he realized this, as red, yellow, orange, red, yellow, orange, red, yellow, orange, red eyes, stared into his own blue, and Finn Bálor stared back into the void.

_let me in._

The energy, those lone brambles, tendrils, roots, flickered and shook, wavered and trembled, the screaming twisting on the wrong side of agony, grating against the inside of his ears as Bálor consumed– burned and blazed, froze and solidified, digging its own talons into where the entity ghosted over him.

And then time and physical matter caught up.

He hit the canvas with a choked off groan, heaving a heavy gasp as a boot drove into his flank and the void, everything and nothing, receded at last, taking the screaming, the lack of anything, and the roots with it. Bálor had headed it off with that little burst, swelling up, eager for a fight, to take over, but the Fiend caught on quickly and drove him down head first, dizzying him.

Not even a second to recover before he was on his feet, bouncing off ropes and onto the mat again, fearful instinct digging talons into his heart as he wheezed, barely catching himself as he stumbled, scrambled away.

The Fiend followed after him, boxing him into the turnbuckle and holding an iron grip to his jaw, staring down at him once more, heaving wet breaths over his skin.

** _let me in._ **

The crawling roots entered the ring once more, emboldened, tangling around his ankles and wrists like barbed wire, twisting together behind the Fiend, looming over them both as all of the scattered strands wrapped into each other, taking form. Finn took a panicked breath as the warping, shaking, _screaming _mockery of a human hand bent around his opponent and dug it's claws into his skull, dead language and furious heartbeats pounding a headache into his brain.

It was grotesque, inhuman and yet struggling to form into something recognizable. It beat into his mind like a searing brand, razor digging deeper and deeper, a fractured tempo, until all he could hear, see, touch, taste was the void, nothing and everything, that wet, festering rot in every piece of him that _was._

Bálor pressed through Finn’s walls, cracks in the dam, swelling subzero beneath his skin to press close to the warm gloves, burning into his eyes in the way Finn knew his sclera must be pinking as his blood vessels fought the energy surge. The Fiend blew hot air over his face as the hand _shrieked, _claws bleeding violent ash as his Demon chased it out, ash that clung to his sweaty skin, invisible to the untouched but vibrant and horrifying, unknowable.

Bálor startled violently, and Finn very suddenly realized, looking into red, yellow, orange, red, yellow, orange, red, yellow, orange, red eyes, that he could feel that same horrifying power begin to creep in after the gouges the claws had made, numbing his fingers and shins, crawling, chugging slow up into his knuckles, his hands, he couldn’t _ feel– _

Finn punched it as hard as he could across the cheek and choked as fists dug into his ribs, inhaling sharply as it threw him across the ring and leaning quickly into muscle memory to leap over the sprinting powerhouse, whirling to face the threat. He startled hard, fight leaving him for fear as he scrambled backwards once more to the tune ofBray Wyatt’s remaining spine _ snapping _ under the command of the being within, bending backwards to stare at him with wide eyes.

_ Now, _ his instinct rallied, _ now, now, now, while it’s busy! _ He charged forward but just as quickly, he was scooped into a too firm grip, hands, arms, chest too solid for anything _ living _ or _ human, _and planted him, his knees aching, sides screaming, and– Finn gagged, pressed face first into the mat, the back of his neck pulsing in agony to the rhythm of his heartbeat as those same ripple footsteps walked off, circling him.

_ Bálor, _ he started as the Fiend returned, propped him up, caressed gloved fingers over his jaw, the sides of his face, _ Bálor, now, Bálor, you have to do it now!_

His body shivered violently, that frozen power ripping forth to swallow him up in lieu of answer. Fuck. Gods, this was spiraling, he hadn’t figured– well. He knew there would be difficulties, but it was never supposed to be this bad, he’d figured the Fiend would be all bark and no bite, at least compared to Bálor, but now… Now Bálor is _ struggling._

It was unheard of. Together, they were a Demon King in a True Vessel. This situation wasn't possible, shouldn't be.

There are hands on him, though, as that ice in his veins surges forward as fast as it can go without ripping his body beyond repair, undeniable, horribly gentle hands turning his face to the left, one on top of his head and the other under his jaw. Somehow, some way, Bálor wasn’t _ powerful enough._

It shouldn’t be possible. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t supposed to _ be like this, not like this, it wasn’t possible, this couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t supposed to b– _

The Fiend snapped his neck.

There was no slow motion, no few seconds of catching up, no warning, no preparation or hesitation, nothing. One second Bálor was there as it had always been and in the next it was gone and gravity forced him to the canvas at the shock of it.

The Fiend lifted him, forced his hypersensitive, jelly legs beneath him, lifted him, planted him, leaned over his gagging, choking, gasping body before shuffling away.

The world was quiet. 

The audience shrieked, the ring shook, the announcers adding into the volume, but he could no longer see the vibrant colors of t-shirts in the crowd. He couldn’t hear the footsteps of his opponent, couldn’t feel any power of any kind. He couldn't even feel the audience and their energy. It was like his entire body, all five of his senses snapping back at him like a rubber band, a hard factory reset, like right was left and left was right and up was down. 

There was nothing but Finn.

No whispering, no chill, no heat, no whiskey in his veins, no sensation of discomfort under his skin, in his chest, in his lungs and throat. There was no void, no too-much, no frustration with question, no power, no burning in his eyes, no

There was nothing. Nothing at all.

* * *

He barely remembers how he gets into the back, only that Seth shows up and makes him realize he’s sitting there, staring at a wall long enough his eyes feel dry, legs numb.

“Tough luck,” Seth says, frowning sympathetically. “I really thought…”

“What?” He chokes out, blinking burning eyes and glancing at him.

“I thought the demon would show up or something. Like you were just trying to keep the secret and he would pop out at some point, but… He didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Finn sighs out, quiet as a whisper. “He…”

“Hey, you okay? Finn?”

“Huh?” He snapped out of it properly at the low tone. “What? Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“You’re crying.”

Finn belatedly wiped away a wetness he couldn't feel, old tear tracks.

“Yeah, uh, listen Seth…”

“No, uh, no, it’s fine, dude. I know that face. Just, I’ve always got my phone if you need to talk, you know that, right?”

“‘That face’?” Was Seth Touched? Could he see the ashy blood of a bloodless being that stained him head to toe in flakes and splatters from the Fiend's tendrils?

Seth rubbed the back of his neck, ducking his gaze. “Grief.”

Finn startled, incredulous.

“Loss,” he elaborated awkwardly, fidgeting. “Listen, uh, we all lose people and you aren’t alone, alright?”

Finn stared. He stared, and stared, and stared, until something rose to answer him and he choked on it. 

He gagged and coughed until the answer, broken and clipped, snapped out of him, raw, jagged, clawed. His mouth spasmed, twitched upwards and then shook, trembling in time with the rest of him as his adrenaline rush began to crash, and he realized the sound, the answer, was supposed to be laughter.

Finn laughed until his dry eyes became wet and began filling, flooding, and he leaned into familiar-unfamiliar arms, gasping for breath that wouldn’t come into too-small lungs.

* * *

Eventually, he shakes off Seth. The Slayer still had a Beast to fight, tonight. He promises to meet him after everything's said and done. As soon as he's unattended he changes into his street clothes and carefully packs everything into his duffel, leaving it in Seth's locker room as he passes it.

Finn leaves and doesn't look back.


End file.
